


Lip Service

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cute, Floof, Fluff, Goverment approves of your lip service, Kissing, M/M, Office Snogs, Scotland Yard is kissing the British Government, Smooching, Snogging, kiss, mystrade, snog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7816552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pausing for a lungful of air that would prevent his head from dizzying, Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft’s and looked into his eyes. He was entirely too close and his vision was obscured by almost going cross-eyed to focus, but he smiled as he met Mycroft’s gaze. “See what happens when you actually relax for five minutes?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lip Service

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly useless Mystrade fluffiness because I needed a bit of fluff in my life at the moment. ALL THE MYSTRADE SNOGS!

“You’re quiet this evening.” 

Mycroft looked up from the document on his desk and peered over his glasses at Greg at the intrusion of his voice. The DI had snuck into his office some time ago and while Mycroft had pretended not to have noticed his arrival, he’d been somewhat endeared to know Greg had wanted to be with him and was respectful enough not to even interrupt him. 

Mycroft removed his glasses and set them down on top of his reading material. “Am I?” 

Greg nodded his head and crossed his left foot over his right knee. He cupped a tumbler of whiskey in his left hand and, in the light that was given off by the lamp beside the leather couch that ran along the far wall of Mycroft’s home office, he looked younger than his fifty-five years and his face was alive with angular shadows that highlighted his features and made his large, dark eyes look even wider. “I thought that you’d taken a moody with me.” 

Mycroft scoffed and sat back in his high-backed desk chair. “No.” He said resting his right forearm on the arm of his chair whilst he turned his biro over in the fingers of his left. “I have not _taken a moody_ with you.” He reassured Greg. “I’m just trying to keep my mind occupied.” 

“Sherlock will be okay, you know?” Greg said, cutting into anything else Mycroft might have had to say. 

Mycroft’s head pulled slightly to the left and he fixed his eyes on Greg a little more sharply. “I’m not worried about Sherlock, Greg. I’m worried about you.” 

“Why?” Greg challenged. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of one of Sherlock’s cock-ups and it won’t be the last. I’m like the _Lord of the Dance_ when it comes to backing myself out of a Holmesian disaster; I’ve got moves.” 

Mycroft smiled despite himself. “Moves.” He whispered, shaking his head in amusement. “Why do we put up with him?” 

“Because we love him,” Greg said with no hesitation. He uncrossed his legs and turned at the waist to place his glass down onto the table at his side. He pushed himself to his feet and crossed the dimly lit room to meet Mycroft at his desk. He made his way behind the desk and planted himself behind Mycroft’s chair. He reached his hands down and, despite the stiffening of Mycroft’s neck he was initially met with, began to massage his tense shoulders. “He’s a hurricane, always has been since the day I met him and I know you can back me up on that. But he doesn’t mean what he says, and he doesn’t take into account that his actions have consequences. But that’s why you and I are here; we clean up after Sherlock Holmes. It’s our job roles.” 

Mycroft softened into the touch of Greg’s skilled and manipulating fingers. “Yes, and that is precisely the issue…” 

Greg stilled his hands and pulled them back, taking the headrest of the chair in his hands and turned Mycroft’s chair around. He reached down, bending at the waist, and placed his hands onto the armrests. “It is only an issue if you make it one. Resign yourself to the fact that we’re the Sherlock Holmes Clean-up Crew and be happy in it. Because if you’re not going to do that, I’m going to quickly get very tired of these strops you keep pulling.” 

Mycroft stared directly into Greg’s eyes, inches from the man’s face. “I am not _pulling a strop_. Sherlock’s actions yesterday could have had serious consequences. Still might, too.” 

“And if it does, we deal with it. Right now, we have a quiet evening with no mobile phones, no pressing cases and no bloody Anthea.” Greg smirked, pulling the right side of his mouth up into a half-smile that was entirely too adorable for a man of his age. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Astute observation.” 

“Yes, awfully good.” Greg mocked him. “Now, snap out of this funk, put down the bloody pen, and take me to bed.” He pushed himself forwards, his face suddenly millimetres from Mycroft’s, and pressed their lips together firmly. 

In entirely too quick of a movement for them both to counter, Greg was straddled across Mycroft’s thighs, sharing the chair, and his arms were bracing himself on the back of the chair to prevent putting too much pressure on the seatback and causing it to tip. Their lips battled, stealing air where they could as they kissed passionately, with Mycroft’s hands freeing themselves from their idle stances to place on either side of Greg’s hips, planting him on his lap. 

Pausing for a lungful of air that would prevent his head from dizzying, Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft’s and looked into his eyes. He was entirely too close and his vision was obscured by almost going cross-eyed to focus, but he smiled as he met Mycroft’s gaze. “See what happens when you actually relax for five minutes?” 

Mycroft tightened his arms around Greg’s hips, pulling the man higher on his lap. “Perhaps you should convince me of it more often.” He said, his voice almost a whisper with a contraction of lust capturing his vocal cords. He jutted his chin forwards, stealing Greg’s mouth with his own again.


End file.
